


Temporal Arrangements

by Viking_woman



Series: Iwyn Lavellan & Solas: Timetravel AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Angst with a Happy Ending, Arlathan, Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Elvhenan, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, Pining, Post Crestwood, Post-Break Up, Solas feels very guilty, The Past, Time Travel, memory and loss, self-indulgent details, whoops I have another AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman/pseuds/Viking_woman
Summary: A strange object sends Solas and Iwyn Lavellan back in time, right into a situation neither can control. Raw and emotional from their recent breakup, they have to pretend to date to avoid raising suspicion, and work together to find a way back home.Note: Rating changed to Mature. I do expect the final rating to be either Explicit or Mature





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr trope prompt, fake dating + time travel.

Solas is up front, his back silent and broad. Iwyn halfway regrets her decision to bring him, but the notion is childish. He is the best choice for this mission. They need to investigate an overlooked item in Dirthamen’s temple. A scout had found it, sketched it, and said they didn’t want to touch it because it ‘glowed angrily’. A wise choice, probably.

Now, the scout is leading Solas, Dorian, Cassandra and herself through the labyrinth of rooms to somewhere they had missed on their earlier visits. Cass had sent her sympathetic looks earlier, when they had made camp. Dorian had been talking the whole way, trying to cheer her up. She appreciated it, but she is thankful he is silent now. Him and Solas can look at the item, spend the whole afternoon discussing it, then they can go back. Hopefully it will be worth their time. Hopefully Dorian and Solas will not need longer than an afternoon.

“Here it is,” the scout says a little later. They all crawl through the hidden door, and true enough, inside rests a strange object on a small pedestal. She agrees with the scout, it looks angry, all edges and an unsettling purple glow. She can smell the magic too, bitter like burnt mushrooms.

“Fascinating. I have not seen this kind of magic in a long time…” Solas takes a step forward and reaches for the object. The smell intensifies, and the magic grows. It is fast, or maybe she is slow. Dorian yells. Cassandra draws her sword. The violet tendrils reach for Solas, for his hand, twining up his arm. He flickers. He screams, or maybe she is the one screaming as she grabs him and tries to pull him back. Then the magic hits her, consumes her, but she doesn’t let go.

When she finally can see again, when the pain in her arm has faded, she is not in the muck of the broken temple. She is in hallway, lying ungracefully on top of Solas.  There is music somewhere and the air is cool. Above her, floating lamps cast a soft glow on the midnight blue drapes.

Solas’ clothes are fine, silk and gold and soft furs. Nothing like the rough clothes he usually wears, and nothing like the armor she still wears. Water from the derelict temple is still seeping through her boots. Beneath her, Solas’ chest is broad, solid and close. It feels like home, and it’s the last thing she should think about. She scrambles to her feet, and Solas follows. His eyes dart everywhere, panic and a strange recognition in his gaze.

There is a murmur of voices and clinks of glasses and footfalls and the rustle of fabric from the doorway to the left. The sound of people, many of them. She keeps her voice low.

“Where are we? What happened?”

“I’m sorry – I must act quickly.”

His magic washes over her, cool and clear and somewhat different than usual. Her armor disappears and she is dressed in an white gown, shimmering with golden lights. It clings to her upper body, split by a deep cut all the way down her stomach, and the skirt floats from her hips all the way to the floor. The material is softer than anything she knows. Her arms are covered in numerous golden bracelets. Thankfully, it almost feels like armor.

“Solas – what is going on?” She is not about to panic. It will do her no good.

“I need to… I don’t know for sure… I think we are – “

An elf strides from the doorway towards them. He is short and compact, with deep brown skin and clad entirely in black. His hair hangs in thick twists from his head, each intricately woven with gold.

“Lord Fen’Harel! I didn’t see you arrive. How long have you been hiding in the shadows?”

She must have misheard. Fen’Harel? But Solas replies without pause.

“How would you know?”

The man laughs – and she can’t tell if it is genuine or fake.

“I am afraid I have not yet made your acquaintance, my Lady.” He swoops in and grabs her hand, kissing it with an elegant bow. His fingers run questioningly over her palm. “A warrior? Are you here alone?”

“She is with me.” Solas pulls her close, his arm around her waist. She tries to ignore it’s the first time in weeks he has touched of his own volition. She has to keep her wits, and not notice how perfect his hand fits on her hip.  

“Lady Iwyn, this is Lord June. Lord June, please meet Lady Iwyn.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Iwyn. Let me know if the wolf’s challenges grow dull.”

June. Lord June. Fen’Harel.

She has to do something, not stand there and gape. What would Josephine do? An Orlesian curtsey are probably out, so she settles for a nod and a smile.

“As I am pleased to meet you, Lord June.”

June smiles broadly and turns to Solas. He talks about war or politics or both, and Solas confidently replies, smooth and even. He is at home here, though every answer is evasive.

“Let us re-join the party.” June moves towards the double doors where the music plays, and Solas follows. His hand slides from her waist and presents his arm for her to rest hers on. She has no choice but to do so. Where is she? What happened? Is this some sort of vision in the fade? Is this real? She remembers the elf’s – June’s - assessing gaze before Solas staked his claim, and she wonders what would have happened had she arrived here alone. Wherever ‘here’ may be.

They pass through the opulent golden doors. Magic swirls through the air, pressing against her, running through her. The spark she carries burst into flame. Inside, there are more people than she can count. Elves, all dressed in lavish garments embellished with precious stones or gold or silver or leather or fur.

She freezes, but Solas keeps moving, and she has to move with him so she doesn’t stumble. Her feet are bare, the only familiar thing other than Solas’ presence besides her. Except he is not familiar at all, no hint of the humble apostate. She is out of place, plain and small. She wishes her hair was done, instead of stuck in haphazard pony tail. She hopes she has no mud on her face.

They part with June, but soon another elf engages Solas in conversation. This time, she doesn’t recognize the name, thankfully, and after a similar simple introduction, she is left to observe again, the conversation involving topics and places she has never heard of.

She wishes she could pull Solas away, ask him where they are and what is going on, but every time they take a step, another person engage them in conversation. All she manages is a quick denial when she asks if this is the fade.

It is real, somehow. Real and overwhelming. It makes The Winter Palace look like a barn, the Orlesian Game feel like child’s play. She can’t tell how many questions Solas deflects with other questions, how many layers of vitriol is hidden beneath the niceties. 

Free to observe, she looks at the people. She notices the servants – or slaves she supposes. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth as she grabs an elegant glass of a tray. They are well but plainly clad, almost invisible shadows moving through the crowds, never looking her in her eyes. Vallaslin adorn their faces, the patterns varied and beautiful. No two alike. Something else the Dalish got wrong. It fills her with revulsion and curiosity. What do the different patterns mean? Do they all belong to different nobles?  

She realizes it is a blessing she no longer has her vallaslin. It would look wrong here, stark tattoo rather than the pulsing, swirling magic of these, and she could hardly be believed as Solas’ companion if she wore them.

The guests act and look like nobles. Some seem more important than others, but she doesn’t understand the system. She barely understands Orlais, so she stops trying to guess.

Here is another person to talk to, another introduction made. They look at her briefly, but with no challenge. They are there to talk to Fen’Harel.

That is what they call him, again and again. Her mind screams. Unreal. Unreal. Unreal. But the music and the drinks and Solas arm around her doesn’t feel like dream. It still feels different, like reality has no place here.

“We should dance,” Solas says, when he has bid a tall woman good evening. Someone else is approaching, but Solas is already in motion. She nods and smiles, and tries to remember what Josephine told her. If you look the part, no one will question you.

At the dance floor, Solas leads and she follows. The dance is easy enough, a relief. It also brings him close. His body next to hers, his hips pressed against hers.

“Iwyn,” he says, low in her ear when he gets the chance. “I must be brief. We have travelled back in time. I am sure much here is confusing.”

“It is. Fen’Harel.”

He winches. She almost regrets.

“I’m sorry. I will explain later. Please, do not offer anything to anybody. Do not say much about yourself, if you can. No one knows you, and they will rip you apart if they can, if only to elevate their own status. Be evasive.”

She nods.

“I am truly sorry, this is the only way to prevent it, you must be seen as someone who holds my full interest. Not just… professionally.”

His lips slide over her cheek, and it’s a ghost, a figment from when she was enough for him.

“Anyone unclaimed, anyone suspected of being a free agent, or without much power, or from a minor house, is seen as target of manipulation, expected to pay fealty or be subjected to someone else’s will. You must be seen as high enough status to be here on your own, and to be here with me.”

The music stops and he presses a quick kiss to her mouth. She wants more, and she wants to scream, to claw at him, to tell him to go fuck himself. She smiles gently and devoted at him.

She notices the gold earrings and studs in his ear. Intricately, a chain connects a stud in his lower ear to ring at the tip. She wonders if he would moan if she tugged gently on the chain, and it is absurd, inappropriate. She should focus, heed his words, and she has no right to know. Not anymore. No matter how good his acting is.

“So sweet – how long will it last? Until the morning?”

“Sylaise.”

Solas voice is cold and they turn to face the intruder. A tall woman, with beige skin shimmering like a flawless topaz, and her dark hair a waterfall down her back. Her flowy green dress is covered with swirling whorls and flowers, constantly in motion. She can almost glimpse the pattern once tattooed upon her face.

“Fen’Harel. Are you not going to introduce me to your companion?”

“This is Lady Iwyn,” Solas says. “She graciously accepted to accompany me tonight.”

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Lady Iwyn.” Sylaise’s dark eyes seem to glow and it is equally menacing and reassuring. The intent is different than the cool disdain she has for Solas.

“Would you do me the pleasure of having this dance?”

Sylaise smiles, and Iwyn doesn’t know is she is expressing genuine interest or if it is some sort of powerplay in front of Solas. Solas’ grip on her loosens, and she hopes she reads him right when she nods and accept the dance.

The music swells again, intricate unfamiliar rhythms, and she follows the taller woman, hard and beautiful. It is easy to dance with her. Sylaise holds her gaze, the intensity boring into her. Iwyn hopes she can’t read her mind, and she tries to bring forth nothing but memories of the party, of the beauty and grace she admires in the creature of legend who sweeps her around the floor. The air burns Iwyn’s lungs, and she is glad Sylaise asks no questions.

The dance ends and Sylaise kisses her cheek.  

“I do hope Fen’Harel doesn’t bore you. You are the most interesting thing he has dragged up for the past decade, I would hate to see you languish. Let me know anytime you want to … dance.”

“I will keep that in mind, Lady Sylaise.” She hopes her voice is steady, and the words vague enough to not insult.

They are, thankfully, right in front of Solas, so she doesn’t have to navigate this treacherous ground alone, out of place and out of time. Solas has a peculiar look on his face, and it makes her realize that she is here on purpose, where Solas had to overhear Sylaise and her offer. He saunters to her, and extends his hand.

“I hope you have room for one more dance with me, my - lady?” He has never once called her my lady.

“Always,” she replies, and for her it is no act.

This time, when they dance, he holds her closer. She understands the dance now, but not the desperate, sorrowful look in his eyes. His magic runs over her, pouring out of him, like he is filled to the brim with emotions he doesn’t vocalize. She lets herself get carried by it, the floating lamps, the golden light, the polished floors and crystal windows. Unlike anything she has ever seen or felt. Solas’ hands are firm on her, his desire burning hot and real in this magic palace of dreams. She forgets where they are and what they are and aren’t, and enjoys his body a next to her.

He doesn’t let go when the dance ends. They are close, their faces mere inches apart, his familiar features an ache in her chest. Her lips are parted, and she snaps them shut. She wants to kiss him again, but she dares not.  

“We should be able to leave soon,” he says.

“Good.”

She doesn’t want the charade to end, or maybe she does. She enjoys his closeness far too much. She has too many guesses and questions burning in her head.

After a few goodbyes, they leave through a large Eluvian placed in the lobby. Solas quickly hurries through the Crossroads, the landscape bending to his will. He is silent, and she does not interrupt. They pass through another Eluvian, howling wolves decorating the frame. Fen’Harel. Solas is Fen’Harel and she hasn’t had time to dwell on it.

“Fen’Harel.”

She blurts it out as soon as the mirror closes behind them, before she takes in the oval room the mirror is placed in, which looks identical from this side. Wolves, and wolves on the frescos – his frescos, covering the room, the walls, and the domed ceiling.

Solas’ shoulders sag at her outburst, as if she ran a spear through his chest. He does not meet her eyes when he turns to her.

“I am sorry. I… we should go somewhere private to speak. I do not know how far news will travel and we better keep up the charade.”

There are elves in the hallway beyond, curious glances quickly averted. Solas squares his shoulders and he grows taller, or broader, or simply more. Fen’harel.

She follows him through the doorway, where he puts his arm around her, and he leads her through hallways, light and airy and full of magic. He nods at the people – his servants, and he dismisses them with a wave of his hand.

They are finally alone when they arrive in a suite of rooms. The first has a sitting area and work desk strewn with papers and books, so familiar it hurts. She can glimpse a bedroom beyond the double doors.

“Please. I… we should be alone here. I am… I can’t…” He looks hopeless, lost, and he sits on the couch, and he puts his heads in his hands. “I suppose you have questions.”

She sits. She is next to him.

“Fen’harel? That was what you couldn’t tell me.”

“Yes. I… I wish...” he stalls, and he stares up at the corner of the room where the bookshelves meet the ceilings.

She lifts her hand, and she almost touches him. She lets it fall to her lap.

“Solas. Is that your real name? Or something you made up?” She needs to know. Who is this man next to her? The man who fought with her, who bled with her, who loved her.

“I was Solas first. Fen’Harel came later.”

“You’re a god.”

“No. There are no gods.” Resolutely he turns to her and explains. He tells of wars and deceit, of generals and leaders, of nobility and mage-kings. How later, they became revered as gods, but it was false. And it has not yet happened, but the seeds have been planted. June’s confidence and Sylaise’s haughtiness, and they both think themselves better than anyone else. How soon, Elgar’nan will declare himself a king, and a god.

She tries to understand. She fails. She knows he speaks the truth, but the truth is elusive yet.

“You couldn’t have explained this to me? You couldn’t trust me? I love you.”

“I wanted to. I… I am sorry. There are…” The words come haltingly, drawn from the depths. He collapses inwards and turns away.

“This isn’t all, is it?”

“No, there is more. Things that have not yet happened, though it is nigh inevitable. I have – I will soon… not soon, but.” He shakes his head.  

It is too much. The music and the party like a dream or a nightmare. The magic. The revelations and questions, the anguish that should be hers and not his. Her soul and her bones are tired, worn thin.

“Solas. Can I call you Solas still?”

“I prefer it.”

“Solas. It is late. We have travelled through time. Whatever else is there, let's talk about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Yes, you are right.”

Whatever else he has to say can wait. His secrets make him withdraw inside his own misery. She loves him. She can’t bear to see his pain. She knows now that he cares about her, more than she thought. She wants to take his hurt away. He is afraid, and she wants him to be bold. She wants him to let her love him. She rubs her hand over his back, gently, like she is soothing a frightened halla.

The tenseness leaves him as he accepts her caress, her caring. They sit, her hand on his back, stalled as the ever-present magic dances around them.

“The bedroom is through there,” Solas finally says. “You can… please take the bed. I can sleep here. I wouldn’t… I’m… It is best if we keep the cover story. I have – I had – plenty of guest rooms, but…”

She gets up and she peers into the room, revealing the biggest bed she has ever seen. She laughs.

“Solas. Don’t be ridiculous. We can both sleep comfortably, easily. I don’t think I have ever seen such a big bed.”

He shrugs.

“Come to bed. Rest. Let us talk more in the morning. It’s not as if we haven’t shared a bed before.” She notices the look on his face. “Sorry – I know it’s …. The bed is big, and I think we’re going to need all the rest we can get.”

He nods.

“I hope you can get me my armor back. And I need something to sleep in.”

He nods again, a little lost. He walks to a large closet and pulls out a tunic, clearly his own.

“You can use this to sleep in. I hope it’s – it can work. I’m afraid your armor is gone. You need something suitable made.”

She takes the tunic, and lets the dress slide off her, not bothering with fake modesty. Solas turns away quickly, but not before she sees the blush on his cheeks. He changes with his back turned, and it doesn’t prevent her own staring. She should probably apologize, but she doesn’t.  

Iwyn crawls under the blankets next to him. It feels strange, to share a bed with him again. She has a thousand questions. She wants to go home. She needs to calm her mind. She can feel the tension radiating off Solas, his breathing uneven. He looked so broken, after they were alone, and she knows he is deeply troubled. Did he think she would hate him? Fear him? Maybe she should, according to the legends, but she knows him. Her knowledge leaves no room for fear.  

She lets her hand wander across the bed, and finds his. She curls her fingers around his, and he squeezes them gently in return. Good.

She falls asleep, holding his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, some more truths needs to be told.

He wakes in his own bed, soft sheets and soft light. He wakes with her pressed against him, her arm wrapped around him, her leg between his.

No, this is not his bed. Not anymore. And he should not be enjoying her closeness. Not anymore. But she didn’t fear him, when he told her who he was. She didn’t fear anyone, when those she believed gods stood before her. She impressed him, again, and again he is shamed. He should have told her earlier, when he had the chance. She has every right to despise him, and just because she showed him kindness last night doesn’t mean it will last. It shouldn’t, yet he is filled with a foolish hope.

He should disentangle himself, but he lets himself linger, pretending he deserves her. They are no longer lovers, he no longer has the right to enjoy her nearness. He can’t ask her for forgiveness, for what he didn’t say before last night and for what he has yet to tell her. The orb. The veil. The anchor. He is selfish, pretending she would still care for him, that she would hold him if she was awake.

He has to move eventually though. He still has so much to tell her, and he needs to understand when they are exactly. He got an idea last night at the party, but he doesn’t know for sure. He cannot know too much, or too little. He must act like he did a long time ago, take on the persona that fits this time. Hopefully, there will be documents, research and communication on his desk which will provide clues.

He is deep in his paperwork, engrossed in a missive from Mythal, when he hears her bare feet on the floor. He didn’t notice her wake up, and she now stands in his office, looking a little lost, wearing his tunic. It’s too big, sliding off her left shoulder. There is something odd about seeing her here, in his own domain, wearing his clothes. Here, where he can reach his magic with no veil to stop him, where everything is as it should be. There is something right about her being here, and in one mad moment he can see it – finding another way to end the madness of the Evanuris, feeding the spark of magic and immortality within her. He could have her here, with him, with things right and true and he knows he should not imagine it, but the thought is so appealing, so right.

“Solas?”

It’s a dangerous dream, and he ends it with a roll of his shoulder. She sounds lost, unlike yesterday, as if her mind has processed everything, but she has not yet come to terms with it. Understandable, all things considered. He should be focused on making her feel comfortable, and not his selfish desires.

“Iwyn. Good morning.”

He is at a loss for words. He still has so much to tell her, and he doesn’t know how to fix the look in her eyes or how she will react. Is it all coming to an end now? Will she scream and curse him now?

“Good morning. I’m glad you are still here. In these rooms, I mean.” She smiles slightly, and it makes his heart soar with hope. She does not hate him, yet.

“I would not leave you here. I just wanted to get started on find out when exactly we are.”

She sits on the couch, her legs curled up under her. The sight of her vulnerability stirs something in him, something much more dangerous than dreams of magic and immortality and setting things right.

“We need to know how to get back.” Iwyn looks at her hand. “I still need to stop Corypheus – without me…”

“I know. I didn’t know Dirthamen was experimenting with time magic, but the magic was his. Once I know more, hopefully we can find a way to get back.”

If he wants to go back. He still can’t shake the thought of a second chance to set things right.

“Are you truly Fen’Harel? The trickster who imprisoned the Creators… or what they are…”

“I am, and I did,” he says. “Let me explain.”

He sighs. He has to put all his cards on the table, even if he holds a losing hand. He gets up and he walks towards her, and then he paces back.

“At some point in what is now the future, the corruption and exploitation became too much. The Evanuris had declared themselves Gods, or people had decided they were. It was hard to tell the difference, but in the end it doesn’t matter. There were wars, worse than any we had known before, and more and more elves were bound as slaves. We did not all agree on this, and I started to plan a quiet rebellion. Mythal shared my sentiment, but would not dissent openly. They still killed her, and I could not be quiet any longer.”

“What happened?” Iwyn asks, frowning, but curiosity colors her voice. He grateful she is listening, not shaking in fear or cursing. Yet.

“I devised a plan, to remove the Evanuris from Elvhenan, to imprison the false gods forever, so every elven could live free. I raised the veil, and locked them away. But my plan only succeeded partly.”

He walks past her, back to his desk, but there is nothing there to make it easier, nowhere to look save the wall. He should look at her, she deserves as much. He turns back towards her, hands folded behind his back.

“The veil was never meant to be permanent, but I had exhausted myself too far. I fell into sleep, uthenera, and woke only a year before the Conclave. It was… difficult to see what the veil had done, what I had caused. When the magic left the world, so did our power and immortality. Now, with the spirits and the fade cut off, everyone moves through the world like shadows, deprived of their true potential. Powerless and bereft. I turned the elven into what they are today, aging and weak. Every injustice done to them is because of me.”

He can’t look at her after all, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind her. He doesn’t like towering above her, but sitting next to her feels too intimate.

“You can’t blame yourself for how the world works, Solas. So many things has happened, and the veil has shaped the world. You can’t be to blame for the decline of Elvhenan. Where you there for the Exalted March? For the loss of the Dales? I think your plan worked, but the world is filled with cruelty. With loss and struggle.”

He shakes his head. With a gesture, he slides a chair from the corner and sits across from her, the low table a barrier between them, a shield he can hide behind. The heaviness inside of him grows. He loves her. The intensity shakes him. And yet he must go on, and shatter what still makes her trust him.

“The world is cruel, but it does not have to be so… diminished. I have to fix it.”

“How?”

He looks at her hands, and on his.

“The orb Corypheus carries, it is mine. It is a foci of great power, one I crafted – one I will craft – to harness my magic. When I awoke in your world, I was distraught. I was too weak to unlock my orb, and I needed its power. I… I made sure it fell into Corypheus hands. He was not supposed to live through unlocking it, and the mark was not supposed to be absorbed by a mortal. I didn’t expect… it wasn’t… none of this was supposed to happen.”

“So this mark is your magic? Your fault?”

He nods.

“You still haven’t told me why you needed your orb and this magic or what you mean by fixing the world,” she says. She cradles her left hand in her right, runs her thumb over the mark.

“Your world is…”

“Yours too,” she says sharply. “You live it in. Not now, but you will. You were there, alive.” She shakes her head in confusion.

“The veil makes it wrong. I plan to use the orb to tear it down. It will…” _kill you and everyone else I’ve come to care for_ , “bring untold chaos as magic floods the world again, but all of this could be restored. Wrongs will be righted, but cost would be… high.”

“What cost? Would anyone survive?”

“Unknown.”

He can’t look at her, not now, when his duty presses his shoulders into the ground unbearable, but undeniable.

“I see,” she says, calmly. Too calmly, and when he finally looks up, she doesn’t look at him, her body tense and her muscles flexed as she stands. “Is there some place I can wash? I’d also like some clothes that aren’t… aren’t yours. And some breakfast. Do people not eat here?”

“Of course. The bathing chamber is through the door on the left in the bedroom. I will send someone in to take measurements for clothes, and for some food.”

She gets up and walks away, and he knows that he has lost her. He has never seen her so remote, so still. He feels chilled, and there is frost where her fingers touch the door. She doesn’t know, and along with everything else, he needs to teach her to control her magic, fast. Her heart will never again warm to him, but for now they must keep up the ruse.

He sends for food, and tailors and a maid. At least he can offer her this, and then he should work on getting them back. It would do them no good to linger here, to try and change time is madness. What’s more, Iwyn is bound to her time, friends and family and home. He has already taken enough from her.

He waves the servants through when they arrive, briefly explaining what he needs, and gestures for the food to be set out by the sitting area. He has no appetite. He sits, heavily, and stares at the paper he already read, an inconsequential message about an inconsequential topic. He wished he’d told her everything earlier. He wished he hadn’t had to tell her at all. He deserves the coldness in her eyes. Every bit of her contempt. He wishes he had never touched that item in the temple. He wishes she could stay here with him. His wishes will do him nothing, but there is a relief in having told her everything. His plans have slipped through his fingers, again, but there are no more lies he has to carry, no more half-truths and omissions for him to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now not just a one-shot! I had many people encourage me to write more on this, and I appreciate every single one of you.  
> Special thanks to EmpressTress13, who has been very excited for me working on this, and to Buttsonthebeach, for help with bouncing ideas and headcanons. 
> 
> I will warn you, my dear readers, that I am slow to update and I have no set schedule for this. I hope you will still stick around!


	3. Chapter 3

Iwyn finds the bathing chamber easily enough. A doorway on the opposite end of the bedroom leads to another large room, one where the walls and floors are rose quarts, and soft light spills from floating orbs. There is sink and a tub and shelves with soft white towels. The tub has metal pipes and faucet, and with a few tries she manages to get hot water filling the bath. It must be some sort of strange magic, and she is happy it just works. She is in no mood to go ask Solas for help. 

She strips, folding his shirt neatly. 

She steps into the tub and dunks her head under the water, so hot it almost scalds her skin. It is a welcome distraction. She wishes it would clean the thoughts from her head, along with the dirt in her hair. She finds a flask with a clear, vicious liquid that creates a foam when she rubs it between her fingers. A soap, made liquid somehow. More magic, more strangeness. Even the Inquisition with all the resources Josie works to provide, has wooden tubs, filled by water heated in her fireplace, the soap a hard brick scented with lavender -- if she is lucky. The liquid soap foams easily, between her hands and in her hair (she is sure there is still mud in it somewhere from that blasted, rotten, temple). It has a pleasant smell; sandalwood, a hint of vanilla and something else. She realized it smells like Solas, and the scent comforts her. 

“Fuck.”

She manages to stop herself from throwing the glass vial across the room.

Childish anger will do her no good, but she doesn’t know what to do with her thoughts. Solas was the one to raise the veil. He felt it necessary, but now he wants to remove it again, no matter the cost. A cost he thinks could destroy everything in the world. He’d lied to her, or in the very least hidden truths she never imagined. He chose to run when he could have told her, chose to end their relationship rather than trust her. He picked his cause over her. Part of her admires his dedication, but she still wishes they could have talked about it. There must be some other way, some way they can find together. What had he planned to do, after they beat Corypheus? Grab the orb and run? Bring down the veil then and there, when they finally defeated him, possibly wrecking more havoc than Corypheus ever could? 

She needs to push these thoughts aside. They need to go back, and she isn’t sure how without Solas. Getting home and dealing with Corypheus must be her top priority. What happens after… maybe there is still time to change his mind, now that he told her, maybe she can...

A knock on the door interrupts her and her thoughts. She mumbles something affirmative, and three elves step through. A tall and pale woman, her black hair piled in top of her head in an intricate hairdo. A short man with long and curly brown hair. Another tall woman, with deep brown skin and cloud of hair surrounding her face.

“I’m Tialha, and this is my assistant, Ryil.” The last woman gestures towards the man. “We’re here to take some measurements for clothes.”

“And help you dress.” the first woman adds. “I am Alina.” She unfolds a towel and holds it out expectantly, and Iwyn can do nothing else but step out of her bath. 

Iwyn dries herself and accepts Alina’s fussing and Tialha’s measuring. She pulls string of light from her fingers, magic to help her craft. She lets their busyness sweep her up, talk of fabrics and colors and evening and daytime outfits. It occupies her mind, but it doesn’t escape her notice that they don’t question Solas needing a whole wardrobe for some unknown woman. She wonders about his influence, or whether this is a normal occurrence. They keep adding outfits to the list, and it seems resources are not an issue. She hopes they will be home before she can use them all. 

They leave, and Alina, who has been sorting through the set of dresses she has brought, unfolds one in a pale pink color. Iwyn knows better than protest than she can dress herself, from the insistence of servants and helpers in Skyhold, and in Orlais at that blasted party. She is still not familiar with this kind of process, but it is not entirely foreign. She should thank Josie, if they get back. When they get back. 

The dress itself is simple, soft fabric fastened with gold clasps at her shoulder. A decorative rope of twisted gold sit below bust and across her waist, and high slits allow freedom of movement. She still misses her armor. 

“This should do nicely, my lady, though it is a little dated. I am sure no one with notice, with you being such a… novelty from the countryside,” Alina says. Iwyn isn’t sure if it is a backwards compliment or insult. 

“Thank you, Alina.” 

The other woman nods. “Now, your hair. Sit.” 

There is nothing for her to do but comply. She wonders if this is going to be a daily occurrence, if no one here can dress themselves. Solas looked like he had, he had looked almost familiar in a simple tunic. 

Alina steps back and regards her. “Better. Just a little – “ she turns and grabs a small flat box from an upper shelf, dips her fingers inside and brushes them over Iwyn’s cheekbones. “Wonderful.”

Iwyn regards herself in the mirror – gold dust on her cheekbones, her hair piled high on her head. She wonders why Solas has makeup in his private bathroom. Does he have company often? Often enough to have gowns lying around, to have someone leave their makeup? She doesn’t like it, ridiculous as it is. This is his past, and she always knew he had one. She didn’t expect it to be… this. But She can’t help but wonder about what sort of women, or men, he knew back then. Back now. She exhales. It is not her business, and she doesn’t even care anymore. She doesn’t. 

Alina leaves with her thank you, and it does feel nice to be refreshed, to be dressed nicely and have her hair done. The bath calmed her and she enjoyed Alina’s attention, if she is honest. It felt good to have someone care just about her. Here, she is not the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. They must believe her a minor noble, and just herself. Even if she knows that they are loyal to Solas, they cared for her, and not her title. She glances in the in the mirror again. It looks like she belongs now, among the wealth and magic. She runs her hand over the fabric of her dress, feels its rich softness. She smiles at herself, and draws centering a breath. She hasn’t sorted out her feelings about Solas, and everything he revealed, but now she knows she can face it. 

When she returns to Solas’ study, he is back at his desk, scribbling on piece of paper. Food is set out by the sitting area; breads of various shapes, cheese, fruits, and pastries. There is a pot of hot tea, and she knows that is for her. There is a tight, warm feeling around her heart, before she remembers that she is still upset. 

“This looks delicious. Thank you Solas.” 

She can still be polite. 

“Of course. Eat please, I am just going to –“ he looks up at her, and pauses. “I… I need to finish this.” 

He keeps staring a little longer.

Iwyn sits and starts eating. The food is delicious, and she is pleased with Alina’s talents and Solas’ staring. It feels a little petty, but she will take what she can get. 

“I’ve determined an approximate timeline for where we have been displaced to,” Solas says when he joins her. “I have also outlined some details about your assumed identity, should people ask.”

She nods, and notices Solas picking 3 pastries for his plate. She wonders how much of his true self she has seen. She doesn’t know which she would prefer. How can the man she knows, the man she loves – loved, want to violently upheave the world, without a care for the people in it?

“What about the device, and getting back?” She doesn’t want to be stuck here, and she is not sure how Solas feels about it. She will find a way back to her own time alone, if she has to. She can worry about her feelings later. 

“I have not learned much. As I said, I was unaware that Dirthamen was tinkering with time magic, but the magic was clearly his. However, I found an invitation for a soiree he is hosting in a few days. We should attend, and find out as much as we can.”

“Good.”

She is relieved that he is working to get them back, and that he is willing to share the information. 

Next, they go over her cover. She is posing as a commander in his army, and she gets a garrison, and hometown and a service record. Far enough away to that she should not get too many questions about people she should know. Closely associated enough that there should be no questions about how she met him – Lord Fen’Harel. She still doesn’t know who that is, and again she pushes that thought aside. 

“We should also continue the… deception that we are… together. I apologize, but it will make certain things easier.” Solas’ words are formal, his left hand picking at his right sleeve. The tunic looks clean and new, there are no frayed threads. 

“I’m sorry for your – inconvenience.” She knows he ended what was between then because of all the things he couldn’t say, but she can’t help to wonder what it meant to him. It’s not fair to doubt him, when she’s seen the pain in his eyes, but she is hurting too. “Was it ever real to you – or are you already used to pretending?”

“Never doubt that what we had was real – Iwyn, I…. it’s...” 

He reaches across the table, and brushes his hand against hers, a pulse of his magic following. Her heart beats wildly.

There is a loud knock on the door, and a man enters without waiting. 

“Apologies, my Lord, but this is urgent. Lady Andruil has demanded your presence, as well that of others.”

“Demanded?” Solas turns, frowning. 

“She was adamant, it appears to be about her slaves. I could send your regrets. My Lord.”

“No, we will be there. Just give us a moment. Thank you, Elas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun cliffhanger? maybe?
> 
> I apologize, I know this isn't much. But this will not be highly dramatic, I fear. Hopefully the tumultuous emotions comes through.


	4. Chapter 4

He has to follow Andruil’s summons, as little as he wants to. The position he was in at this point in time affords him no less. He tries to remember what it was about, but he can’t.

“Give me a moment, I need to change.” He looks at Iwyn, who stands and nods. She is calm and strong, focused on what comes next. She doesn’t comment on what he was trying – and failing – to say, even if she deserves a fuller explanation. Instead she is ready as for a battle. This is still a hostile environment for her, and she is not far off.

He loves her fiercely.

He moves back to his room, and finds a finer tunic, with a tall metallic collar. He adds a belt and tucks in a piece of black fur. He should look presentable enough now, so that Andruil can’t publicly take offense – but not fine enough that he acknowledges her importance. At least he thinks he got the balance right.

He adds a simple hoop to one ear, but not the other. He forgot how tiring these calculations were, and how they used to be second nature.

“What can I expect?” Iwyn asks when they are leaving together, walking towards the eluvian.

“I am not sure. Some spectacle, Andruil always liked those. I don’t recall this particular one, but I would expect posturing, demands of power and privileges.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. These years were not the worst, the most obscene or decadent. But it was the foundation, for all that came after, and he regrets he didn’t see it earlier.

“How should I act?”

“Stay close and follow my lead. Please, I need you to trust me. I worry about changing the political situation I’m before I have my bearings. Your actions are seen as mine or an extension of my position. Again, I apologize, I… didn’t think of a better cover.”

“It’s fine, Solas. I understand.”

He activates the eluvian, and they walk a short path to the one in Andruil’s halls. He fills her in with as many details as he can remember.

When they arrive, many people are already there. The eluvian stands in a grand courtyard, filled with trees and crystals shaped by magic. The ground is smooth and covered in polished silver, only broken by the roots of the massive trees. Colorful birds swoop among the branches, but the people filling the courtyard are the true spectacle, more vibrant and posturing than the birds.

Almost everyone notices their arrival.

He places a hand at the small of Iwyn’s back, and guides her through the crowds. They make their way to the side of dais in the middle of the courtyard. Sylaise is here, as is Falon’Din and Dirthamen. He wishes he could question the man, but whatever experiments he is doing, they are not public. They never are, and he wonders what else Dirthamen had tinkered with, that he never knew about.

Iwyn’s back is rigid, her smile strained. He automatically rubs his hand in soothing gestures across her back, he lets his magic run along her skin. He shouldn’t, but his heart sings when she relaxes ever so slightly, when she allows him to comfort her.

“Lord Fen’harel,” Dirthamen says, inclining his head. “I’ve heard about your new… acquaintance. I hope you both will attend my little event.”

“Lord Dirthamen. This is Lady Iwyn, commander of the Ashon’lan battalion. We look forward to attending.”

“Please to meet you,” Iwyn says, meeting his eyes.

“Likewise. I look forward to meeting you under more pleasant circumstances.”

They are interrupted by Andruil who finally appears, striding confidently out of her fade step. She is shorter than Solas remembers, her brown hair braided intricately. She is wearing a pale yellow gown, excessively decorated with ribbons in white and green. Her eyes scan the crowd.

“Where is Mythal and Farath?”

He had forgotten about Farath. With too many public missteps, she would be gone and forgotten soon.

A blonde elf, his valleslin gently shimmering in a pale purple, bows before Andruil and whispers something. She backhands him, sending him flying across the ground.

Iwyn tenses beside him, but says nothing. He wants to leave.

Andruil sneers, and then all her birds screech at the same time, an eerie noise. The crowd falls silent.

“My dear friends,” Andruil begins, and Solas hears Falon’Din suppress a chuckle. The man was never any good at politics. “Thank you for taking the time to come here today. It is fitting that you do, as I will soon rise above you.”

He has not missed Andruil’s ‘modesty’.

“It has come to my attention,” she continues, “that some do not value my contributions – or those of my peers - to peace and order. That some think they do not owe me any loyalty. That they are free to do as they want.”

She pauses her pacing, and seems to gather herself, her eyes scanning the crowd. Or maybe she is looking for a suitable target.

“You!” Andruil says, pointing at an elf in the crowd. The man steps forward, his head high and his spine rigid. His face is marked with valleslin the shape of shifting leaves, and Solas does not know him.

“You thought you could betray me. You thought you could spread slander about me.”

“I did no such thing, my lady.”

“You’re a liar. An ungrateful nobody.”

“I apologize. My Lady.” The man bows deeply, his voice trembling. Solas hopes that will be the end of it. He isn’t that lucky. Andruil walks forward, her footfalls echoing with menace.

“Who do you belong to?” she asks him.

“Falon’Din.”

“Ahh, Falon’Din.” Andruil looks straight them, her eyes locking with Falon’Din’s. “Will you challenge my authority, Falon’Din, over this man of yours who has insulted me?”

Behind him Falon’Din shuffles, but says nothing. Solas clenches his fist. He briefly considers speaking up, but he isn’t sure he can afford it. He is paralyzed by his own past.

Andruil focuses on the elf in front of her again, stepping into his space.

“He doesn’t care. He won’t protect you. You are nothing but a wretched slave.”

A blade glints in Andruil’s hand, and the man says nothing.  

“It doesn’t matter you’re not mine. You were still spreading lies about me, and I think it’s time something is made clear. I can be judge, jury and executioner, and none will stand against me. It is my right.”

Her blade flashes, and blood sprays from the man’s throat, and his head falls unnaturally forward.

“Be glad I made it quick.”

The blade flashes again, and Andruil buries her sword in the man’s chest. He falls backwards.

Andruil laughs and licks a drop of blood from her lips, uncaring of the mess on her gown. Solas hates this, and hates even more that he as forgotten the incident. Just one of many. Solas bites the inside of his cheek. Now is not the time.

“Does anyone wish to challenge my authority?” Andruil says, her voice ringing through the courtyard.

The crowd says nothing. The birds chip and croak, oblivious and alive. The sun reflects off the crystals.

Blood is spilled on the smooth silver ground, red and real, leaving the mangled body cooling beneath the trees.

Iwyn’s lips are thin, pressed together in silence, but her eyes speak volumes.

This is not the Elvhenan he wants to show her, this is what he fought against, this is what he (later, much too late) tried to stop. He wishes he only had the beauty to show her, the magic and wonder. The knowledge and learning, the joyful spirits and endless warm nights.

 There is truth in this horror, but it is not the whole truth.

 

* * *

 

“My father has Anduril’s markings on his face. He revers her. Goddess of the Hunt.”

She spits it out angrily, and he decides he will not tell her how far her madness will reach, in the end.

“I’m sorry, Iwyn,” he says, and he means it. He has derided the Dalish for their worship of their false gods, but he has not taken the time to consider what this means to them before. How it would feel to have your world upended, to have a sincere belief and have it taken away.

Maybe the Dalish are not foolish, unlike those who should have known better when the Evanuris decided to rule as Kings and Gods. Maybe they were but clinging to what they knew, and what would help them through their lives.

“Your father – your clan – they did not know. They could not know.” This is the truth and now he understands. “They worship an idea, a powerful huntress who brings life and food to the table. Not a madwoman bent on slaughter.”

“I know!” she says.

Iwyn paces in his study – they retreated here when they returned. Someone has removed the breakfast and left fresh breads and olives and pickled peppers. Iwyn hasn’t touched it.

He wants to reach out and touch her, to hold her, comfort her with his hands and words, but she would not appreciate it. He hasn’t seen her upset like this, not since the early time in Haven, when thrust into uncertainty and accused of killing the Divine.

She turns to him, flexing her hands.

 “Why do you want to bring this back? How is this better than anything in the present?”

“When the veil fell in place permanently, so much was lost. So many people lost. So much knowledge, a whole way of living. Everything became diminished.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“There are good things here, too. What became of the world is not right. Living without magic is barely living at all.”

 “It works out fine for the people who live it. My people still have magic, magic that is used to help people. How can you support this – this madness?”

“I do not. This is why I tried to change it. I failed and I have to try again, to make things right.”

He desperately clings to his plans, his mistakes, and his duty. It’s all he knows.

“And if you do, how do you know it’ll be better?”

“The world you live in is broken. Are the atrocities any less? It must be undone.”

“Why not fix what is there? Why not change the world by moving forward, not back?”

“I can’t. I…”

“You won’t.”

She turns and leaves, striding out of the room.

 

Solas stands there for a while, staring at the door. The truth is that he is no longer sure of what he must do. It was why he had to leave her, to break her heart before he would break his duty.

Can he change the past, now? He wants to, to try and do better a second time. What if none of what will happen comes to pass? What if he can fix it _this_ time, and live here, with her, and change everything? He shakes his head. The risk is so great. What if she will simply… cease to be, if he changes the past and the future with it? It hurts to think of. What of everyone else she knows, her friends, her family? Would they never exist? He would not make that choice and be able to look her in the eyes.

His duty should be clear, even if the possibilities are murky. But he misses her already, even though she just walked out the door.

Everything here feels wrong and hollow without her. Iwyn has changed him. The world has changed him. What of his friends, in the Inquisition? because that is what they are now, friends.  His own world doesn’t feel like his home anymore. He has no desire to undo the future, he –

Solas sits, head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your patience <3


	5. Chapter 5

Iwyn doesn’t have a plan when she leaves, all she knows is that she needs to get some air, to feel the wind on her face. The hallways are tall and beautiful, and she knows the way to the eluvian and nowhere else. She walks the other way, wondering if this place even has a proper exit, a door, or if she is prisoner in this ethereal place, a mansion of sparkling magic with no way out.

She doesn’t want to know if it’s rotten underneath, if Solas contributed the rot as much as all of them. _You wouldn’t have liked me when I was young._ How young did he mean? Or did he mean this, the corrupt meanness, the meaningless splendor and callous disregard for life?

Luckily, she soon finds herself in a courtyard, with rows of low bushes and pathways and trees. Across it is an outer wall and huge set of double doors, they are open and beyond there is roads and houses; a whole city.

No one stops her when she exits through the gates.

The streets are wide and covered with flat stones. The houses are tall and painted in vibrant colors. She slows her steps and looks around curiously. Some of the houses are tall and graceful, with trees growing through the corners, and some are small and square with crystals glowing on the second-floor balconies. She walks among the people there, elves and spirits who drifts aimlessly like her, or hurry determinedly on errands she doesn’t understand.

She turns down a large road. There is a shop selling flowers, and next to it a bookshop and next to that a bakery. The smell of fresh bread is familiar, the same as when her mother bakes it, as the kitchens of Skyhold, as the small bakery just outside the alienage in Wycome, or as the large one with white-clothed tables where she purchased sweets at in Val Royeaux, so long ago. She is hungry, but she has no money.  She continues down the street, past the bakery and a barber, a butcher and a shop that sells only stationary. How much stationary does one person need?

She follows the street a little longer, and then another and another. The streets are straight at first, and then winding, passing up and between small hills.  The area here seems residential, with fewer people around, and kids roaming the streets. A boy of about twelve seem to be doing magic tricks for an adoring crowd of younger kids. He lights up in a proud smile when the kids gasp when the dancing lights he has conjured chases down the street. Iwyn laughs too.

She decides to turn back a little later, only to realize she is lost. No matter which way she walks, she can’t find the corner the boy was on, or the hill she walked up, or the street with the bakery. She waves at a beautiful lady who is watering plants in floating pots, and she is still lost. The houses here are taller than anywhere else, and maybe if she could get up she could see where she needs to go. Solas’ house was more like a palace, and it should be easy to spot. It’s easy enough for her to find a house she can climb, clear crystals jutting out from the vivid blue surface. She wonders if the house is grown, somehow, from magic, but it seems solid enough. She avoids the wooden balcony, just in case someone is home, and soon enough she has scaled the four stories. The roof is only slightly slanted, and she walks across the black tile, looking in all directions.

She is still lost. It makes no sense that she can’t see Solas’ place, that she can’t even see the shops or the straight streets. Just houses and more houses, the streets curling around them like big lazy cats.

Iwyn sighs, and sits down. It’s so unlike her to run off in frustration, but it was all so much. The roof is warm from the sun, and she lies down, starting up at the sky. She doesn’t regret seeing the city through her own eyes. She still doesn’t understand Solas, or his world. Not fully, but she knows now there is a life where elves water their plants and play in the streets and eat fresh bread from the bakery. A few puffy, white clouds drift across the sky, and a hawk chases across the sky, brown and mundane.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know how long she lies on the roof, but the light grows warmer and the shadows longer and the day colder. Someone climbs up on the roof, and Solas sits down next to her.

“You found me,” she says, sitting up.

“I hope you do not mind,” he replies.

She shakes her head, and smiles a little.

“I got lost.”

“It’s a big city.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. I am glad you can see the beauty here.”

“Solas – I’m sorry for storming out. It was… I mean, everything was… I’m sorry.” She can’t find the right words. Her emotions are everywhere, and it’s dusk, and she’s cold in this flimsy dress. She rubs her arms.

“It is I who should apologize,” he says, looking out at the city. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry about – about everything else.” He gestures, turning his hand up. She doesn’t know if he means the time travel, or his deception, his future plans or his stubbornness. Maybe all of it, and maybe it doesn’t matter unless he wants to change.  

“Did you ever – did you ever kill people, just like that?” She needs to know, now, though she doesn’t think he would. It isn’t as if blood and death are unfamiliar to her, but a battle is different.

“No.”

“Okay,” she says. “I didn’t think so, but I just needed to know.”

“Thank you.” The words soften his profile, harsh and angular against the setting sun. She rubs her arms again.

“Are you cold? May I?” he asks.

She nods, and his magic flows over her, familiar and easy. She wonders if the elves of Arlathan ever used coats. Maybe only to look dramatic.

“I’m also hungry. Can you fix that too?”

He laughs a little and this pleases her.

“Not with magic, I’m afraid. But I know of a small restaurant a short walk from here. If you want to join me.”

He suddenly looks bashful, like a young hunter asking a maiden for a walk to the stream. She likes that too, and she agrees readily. She is also really hungry.

They easily climb down from the building, and soon enough find themselves in at a small restaurant. There are five tables with different colored tablecloths. Magic lights floats above them, all in different soft colors. At the counter in the back is an elf with big curly hair, a few tones brighter red than Iwyn’s own, and pale skin with lots of freckles. He greets Solas warmly and they talk a little, and when Solas introduces her, she is greeted warmly. They are seated in the back, away from the door. It’s warm and cozy and Solas’ warming spell slips away. She misses it far too much.

They order their food, and she drinks deeply of her water. Solas pours wine for her, and she doesn’t mind. It’s refreshing, with slight taste of citrus.

“You come here often,” she says.

“I did. The food is good, and it’s not well known.”

They talk a little of the city and Elvhenan. Of life and magic and plants and how she managed to get lost. Solas is right, this place is private and very different from the courts she has seen so far. Their argument from earlier has faded away, and she isn’t ready yet to ask more about what happened. He smiles and she smiles, and their food arrives. He is right about the food too, it’s good. Solas wants her to try everything, and offers her food from his plate. He blushes, and he pours her more wine.

She is warm and happy and full when they leave, and she links her arm in his. It’s dark now, and the streetlights are glowing. They look like regular streetlights, with flickering flames inside. She wonders if someone came by to light them, or if it’s magic.

There is nothing to suggest they aren’t just leaving from a dinner date, and she almost wants to keep pretending. They’d go home and they’d crawl into his bed, and she wonders if he’d kiss her back if she kissed him. She is a little drunk.

“Solas,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“Why didn’t you stop Andruil today? You said you rebelled against the Creators, and imprisoned them. Why did you wait?”

He stops. They are next to a park, a big oak tree on a small plot of land. Almost like the Alienage trees she’s seen. Solas looks at the tree and the spirits below it and the teenager playing with a puppy. He looks back at her, earnest. Maybe she should have asked him the question that came into her mind first, but she can’t just ignore what happened.

“This is not a discussion for a public street. Please, let me take us somewhere else.”

“Of course.”

He takes a step and she follows him, her arm still in his. The magic moves them swiftly, and when she takes another step, they’re on the flat roof of a small tower. They’re back at Solas’ mansion, just the two of them underneath the stars.

Solas lets go of her and start pacing, his hands behind his back.

“I didn’t know.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t know? You were there today – I assume you were before too?”

She stops him in his path; there isn’t much space up here, not really.

“It may seem extreme now, but for me, for us, it was a sliding scale. I didn’t realize yet… I didn’t understand my purpose. Soon, Elvhenan will be attacked by monstrous beings, the likes I have seen since. We won and they never returned. When I was told… “

Solas stalls. He shakes his head. He turns around and looks out over the city. There is light and magic in little dots spread across the city. The lights spread and spread, and the city is bigger than Val Royeaux. She wonders if Solas sees the city, or something else. She stands next to him, not quite touching him.

“My sister had a gift of foresight. She told me I had to gather power, that the very survival of Elvhenan depended on it. When we were attacked, all the nobles stopped their petty games and drove them back. When we won, we were declared kings and queens, wise leaders. I foolishly though my purpose filled. It wasn’t until later, when Andruil went back to her killing, when Elgar’nan demanded more slaves, more power – it wasn’t until then I understood what she meant. And by then I had squandered my time. I did not save Elvhenan. I doomed us all.”

“Your sister?”

She has so many questions, never-ending. She knows so little of him, of this place.

“She is… long gone.” Solas fiddles with the jawbone on his chest, and turns to her, but he is still tall and distant. “It doesn’t matter now.”

She knows enough to know he is hurting. She puts her hand on his arm.

“You must miss her. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

“I don’t mind. I – Her name was Enara. It’s good to remember her. She would have liked you.”

He smiles at her, and she nods. She would have liked to meet her too. Solas looks back at the city.

“About today, and Andruil – I can’t act know. Both because changing the past would have consequences I cannot foresee, but I also can’t erode anyone’s power right now. All their power will be needed the war to come.”

“I see,” she says, and she does. And no matter how horrible it seems, it has already happened, once before. The world and the Dalish and every other elven are still there. The world that Solas dismisses.

“But what about after the war. Would you change that? If you – stayed here?”

She doesn’t want to stay. She wants to go home, and she selfishly wants Solas with her, even if he doesn’t reach for her anymore.

“I… I have given it some thought, I admit. If this had happened right when the Breach was new, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have taken the chance, even if I changed the course of time, or maybe because I could do that. Now – now I do not know.”

“Let’s find a way home, first. I miss it.”

“I know,” he says, his eyes kind and reassuring.

She can give him a little more time, but she wants to drag him fully into her own world and have him stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for your interest and your patience <3
> 
> Thank you to Buttsonthebeach and her Claudia, for reminding me of the universalness of fresh bread <3


	6. Chapter 6

When Solas wakes the next morning, Iwyn is already awake and not in his bed. He can hear her in the bathing chamber. He regrets she awoke first, that he did not have time to enjoy her closeness today. The sheets smell like her now, and it should be out of place, but oddly enough it makes his bed feel more like home. He closes his eyes and wishes for more than just her body next to him. He yearns for her touch, for everything they shared. Everything that he discarded. He had become too close, and he had barely to adjusted to being alone again. Now they are sharing a bed once more, and it feels like home, and he doesn’t know if he can bear letting go again.

It is dangerous territory, dangerous wishes.

Iwyn enters the bedroom, dressed in some of the clothes his tailors delivered yesterday. She has chosen a sleeveless tunic in pale blue and some light pants. The tunic is snug with small flowers crawling up the side, stitched by skill and magic. Iwyn runs her hands through her wet hair, pulling it up in a pony tail.

Dangerous desires.

He stifles a groan and sits up. At least he is under the blankets still.

“I’m sorry, Solas. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says.

“You didn’t. I have just woken.”

“The sun does seem to have been up for a while,” Iwyn says as she walks to the large windows. She tilts her head up, bathed in the morning light. Dust motes and magic swirl around her.

“—Solas?”

“Sorry? Did you ask something?”

She laughs. “Not quite awake, I see. I asked if it’s possible to open these?” There is a small balcony beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, big enough to stand on, but not to sit. He waves a hand and one of the glass panels retreat, faded away for the moment.

Iwyn smiles and steps out on the balcony. She breathes in the air, and starts to move, gracefully bending and stretching. He stares, and realizes he is staring, and hurries to get up.

Later, they have breakfast outside, on one of the larger balconies. Iwyn likes the fresh air, he knows, and there is no reason they should be cooped up in his study or bedroom. They eat in silence, at first. He doesn’t want to bring up last night, or at least not their discussion. He still doesn’t know what to do, what the best course of action is. Change the past? Change his plans? He wonders what Enara would say, what she would see. It’s no use thinking about. He wants to be with Iwyn, and he wants to change everything because of her, but he knows he shouldn’t. It is not the plan.

“It was nice moving a bit,” Iwyn says, breaking the silence, “but I miss training. Is there a place I can use a bow? Do you have a bow?”

He should have thought of that. He is satisfied with the magic in his veins, how it sings to him constantly without interruption. For Iwyn, her skill is with her bow, with her body, and she must miss it.

“Of course – there is a training yard in the back. I’m sure we can find a bow that suits you.”

They finish breakfast and they do find a bow. Iwyn lines up targets, focuses, and soon forgets he is there, watching – he can’t help but watch her, like he did this morning.

She hits all her targets, a rapid and sure warmup. She retrieves the arrows for another round. This time she moves further away, ready for the real work. This is not too different from the times he watched her in Skyhold, and he is not surprised when she drops to one knee, carefully lining up a powerful shot. The arrow flies surely, embedding itself with tremendous power in the wooden target. Iwyn notches another, her bare arms flexing, tensing her whole body, and then she lets the arrow fly.

This time, it splinters the target, continues beyond it, and hits the wall.

It’s enough to pull him out of his entrancement of her arms, and he goes to her where she stands stunned. He is equally amused and concerned, and he can’t keep the grin off his lips.

“That was not what I expected,” she says.

“You used your magic.” He can almost feel it, this close. It sings to him. “It would be most prudent to practice it, before an accident happens.”

“Probably. I’m going to finish this first though.”

She raises the bow again and draws the bow, her arms flexing and her body strong. His magic wants to reach for her, but he nods.

“Just don’t burn down my house, please.”

She grins at him. His heart beats faster.

She lets the arrow fly, and continues with another and then another, her focus returned to the targets. No magic, and she doesn’t need it.

He admires her skill until she is satisfied, a couple of rounds later.

“I needed a workout. I’m glad you had a bow and a range.”

He nods. A light sheen of sweat is covering her, and a drop of it clinging to her clavicle. He wants to lick it. Being near her, with no excuses to stay apart, with the ruse of a romantic involvement, is maddening. No one would be surprised if he pressed against a column, kissing and licking. His pants feel tighter, and he needs to focus his thoughts elsewhere.

“Should we practice your magic now?” he asks. It should serve as a distraction, a way to focus his mind. It is also necessary, as today shows. They cannot risk the questions they would be asked if Iwyn cannot control the most basic magic.

He explains as much, and she agrees. Any elven would be expected to have learned from childhood. They decide to practice in private, to avoid curious eyes, but he doesn’t take her back to the private study in his suite. They have spent too much time there already, being too close to each other. Instead he takes her to a small, bright guestroom, with open windows facing the front courtyard, but two stories up.

“We should have some privacy here,” he says, as he pulls up a chair. Iwyn does the same, and they sit facing each other.

“Let’s begin,” he says.

“Okay. I already use magic with my bow, but it’s not something I think about. And I channel the magic of the Mark, but it doesn’t really feel like my own magic.”

He nods. The mark, his mark, is a complication, and though it has been dormant here, it is still there. They will have to work around it.

“Try consciously summoning a bit of fire.”

She frowns. “Where?”

He points to a small ceramic bowl on the table. Iwyn frowns again. It explodes in a blast of heat, blue shards everywhere.

“Crea – ! I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves his hand to sweep the pieces into a neat pile.

“It was pretty, though.”

“It was but one of many. Tell me how you attempted the fire.”

“I just did the same I do with my arrows. I think they should be on fire, and then they are.”

“There is a difference between fire and explosions.” He frowns. “How come you learned to use exploding arrows? It is hardly something a hunter would need.” He cannot imagine the Dalish risking burning down the forest.

“We always had a good enough relationship with the humans in Wycome, where our permanent settlement is. But high up in the meadows, where we go in the summer, we would sometimes meet less friendly humans. Templars, and others. A burst of fire was a good safety measure, though it didn’t always keep them away.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It was more useful in the Inquisition.”

He thinks of the fear, of all the things Iwyn and her clan should not fear. They should be free and proud and full of magic and they would be, were it not for him. Then again, he remembers the fear in the air at Andruil’s affair, and almost worse, the dull apathy. He wonders if she isn’t right, if what he is trying to bring back is nothing but a dream that cannot exist, that will inevitably corrupt and falter. He shakes his head to clear it.

“Try again, and think of a gentle fire, small and comforting.”

This time she fares better, and he leads her through a couple of exercises in feeling her magic, trying some different types. She picks it up fairly quickly, but controlling the magnitude and the flow magic is more elusive.

“Feel the magic,” he says, and grips her hand. He sends a wave of magic up it, and then a gentle stream, then some soft pulses.

“I think I feel it.”

Iwyn’s lips are parted, and she is very close.

“Now you try, do it with me.”

She does, after a few tries she sends her magic into him. Her magic is different and familiar, a presence he has always known was there, the very essence of her. He pushes his own magic along with hers, a steady beat.

“Oh. I feel it.”

Her eyes sparkle, and a wisp of red hair has escaped her ponytail. Her arms are bare, and her hand is in his and she is very close, and her magic is closer.

He kisses her.

She freezes and then she kisses him back, and he has missed her, and she opens her mouth and he can’t get close enough. He wants her, and he shouldn’t. Her other hand finds his shoulder, and pulls him to her, and it’s not enough. He loves her and he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

He breaks the kiss and stumbles backwards, his chair clattering to the floor.

“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have, I can’t –”

He flees.

He hurries from the room, down a corridor and then another, his feet tracing ancient familiar patterns, until he closes a door behind him, sealed by his own magic.

He is weak, a coward, a selfish fool. Her loves her, and he cannot. He should not have done that. But he did; he kissed her. He paces, he stops. He leans his head against the cool wall. He paces again, restless. Her lips were so inviting, and he is weak. He loves her, and he must not. He has hurt her enough, betrayed her enough. He has no right to hurt her again, to let her know how much he still loves her when they can’t be together.

He had thought, briefly, maybe – she kissed him back, and despite everything she might still love him. Maybe there is a way for them, for him –

He is assuming, and that is even worse. She might hate him; she should hate him, for all that he has done, and hasn’t done. Maybe she was just taken by surprise, by the familiarity. It makes sense, she has moved on, and he has no right to think she is interested. He should move on too. It is for the best, for his plans. All of this should change nothing.

He sits down and breathes. It can’t happen again. He will apologize. The magic brings closeness, and so does their situation – not that it is any excuse, or explanation really, for he simply loves her. But he must tell her this, and she can be free of him. He can continue his plan, he can fix the world gone wrong.

He doesn’t want to, and he is no longer sure if it’s wrong at all.

Solas pushes the thought aside and gets up. The least he can do is to make sure she returns home safely, so she can live out whatever time she has with her family. He thinks of Enara, and he thinks of the letters Iwyn writes to her brother, to her family. It is no use changing the past, and he owes it to her to get her back to her own time. He can worry about his plan and his failures then, but in this he cannot fail her. They must find the device, and travel back – forward, really, to when they were.

 

* * *

 

He finds Iwyn much later, reading in his library. Whatever magic has made it possible for her to speak Elvish does not work quite the same on reading, and she is quietly sounding out the words as she reads. It makes him smile, before he can stop himself.

He folds his hands behind his back, and clears his throat.

“Solas,” she says. Her face is neutral, her eyes boring into him.

“I came to apologize.”

“For running away, or for the kiss?”

“Ah – both. I should not have done that. It was not – I’m not – I’m truly sorry.”

“I understand,” she says, and returns to her reading.

Solas understands less, least of all himself, all he knows is a disquiet within him. He fidgets with his bracelet, with the hem of his sleeve. He wants to fall to his knees and beg her to kiss him again, to say that he is a fool, to declare his love.

He turns around and leaves.

It is for the best, he reminds himself.

 

* * *

 

The next few days are awkward, as they prepare for Dirthamen’s soiree. He still has to teach her magic, but he does not touch her, or her magic, again. She progresses well enough so that she will not raise suspicion.

They go over people, politics, and customs. They practice dancing, and touching her is agony and ecstasy and loss. He sketches Dirthamen’s mansion has he remembers it, and they cover what they will do and what they will looks for. They both desperately hope they will learn something, anything about the device. All other options have led nowhere.

Iwyn is stiff and formal with him, and he hadn’t realized how close and how easy she had still acted with him, how often she smiled at him. Now she turns and withdraws as soon as they are alone.

It is unbearable, and yet he has chosen this.

They will find the device, and they will travel forward in time, and he will forget this. Forget the closeness and the rightness and her body next to him. Forget their kiss, and the kisses before that. Forget wine and dinner and companionship, forget the nights he spent in her bed, and the nights she spends in his. Forget the sheets that smell like her, like home.

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as a one shot, but I ended up writing a full story. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Feel free to stop by my [tumblr](http://thevikingwoman.tumblr.com/)!


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